


Bloom

by ticketybye



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Holding Hands, I Like These Boys like I Like My Food: Cheesy, M/M, i'm SOFT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticketybye/pseuds/ticketybye
Summary: Crowley's plants won't flower.





	Bloom

Crowley’s plants won’t flower.

Not that he minds, really. He doesn’t even _like_ flowers. Too colorful, too cheerful, too… good for him. He is a demon, and being a demon he is perfectly fine with the dark, luscious green of his flowerless plants. Still. It bothers him endlessly that his plants will not do their work. _What they are supposed to do_.

More annoyingly, he doesn’t know what he is doing wrong. He exposes them to regular hours of sunlight, gives them carefully calculated doses of water and fertilizer, repots them as soon as their roots get overcrowded. He has read every Botany book under the sun, from every age. Aziraphale found him some ancient ones, _seminal texts_ he called them, giggling annoyingly at the wordplay.

Crowley mutters under his breath, leaning on the doorframe of the plants’ room, watching them shiver in his presence. Then there’s a knock on the door.

He rolls his eyes. Aziraphale could teleport himself, or just let himself in. “What are you, a vampire?” He sighs, opening the door. “Why do I always have to invite you in?”

“I’m afraid vampires were your lot’s doing, my dear,” Aziraphale says, with a smile, then lifts the small paper bag in his hands. “I got you croissants. For breakfast.”

Crowley has already turned his back on him, and is walking back to the plants. “You know I don’t eat,” he says under his breath.

Aziraphale tuts. “I am aware, and I disapprove.”

“I know where you can stick your disapproval.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

Before he knows it, Aziraphale is standing next to him, munching on a croissant. He’s got some powdered sugar on his upper lip, and Crowley can barely hold back a fond smirk. He goes back to staring at the plants. “You should try this, it’s delicious,” Aziraphale offers, his mouth full. When there’s no reply, he follows Crowley’s gaze and looks at the plants. A few seconds of silence before Aziraphale asks, carefully, “what’s wrong?”

Crowley makes some sad noises, gestures vaguely, unsure how to articulate his disappointment. “They’re not doing _well_.”

“ _Well_? They’re beautiful. The most beautiful in London, you know that.”

“Yes, but they won’t… do what they’re told.”

“They’re _plants_ , dear.” Aziraphale smiles. “What do you want them to do, dance the foxtrot?”

Crowley growls, shrugs. “I’m making coffee, do you want some?”

“I would love some.”

Crowley leaves the room. Aziraphale stays with the plants for a while. 

**

Crowley doesn’t notice until a few days later. He is absent-mindedly misting the plants when he sees it. It’s small, timidly sprouting out of a branch, and it is _pink_. He refrains from yelling, afraid it might scare it away, and looks closer. It is, unmistakably, a bud. He looks at his mister, puzzled. His routine hasn’t changed a bit. This is strange.

In that moment, punctual as both the best and the worst things in life, Aziraphale is at the door. They’re going to lunch, today.

“What did you do?” Crowley greets him, but try as he might, there is no trace of menace in his words.

Aziraphale stares at him blankly, blinking, usual luminous smile still on his lips. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

Crowley glares at him, looks for signs of lying in his transparent eyes – he is a terrible liar, clearly, as only angels can be – and finds none. He shrugs. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

**

That afternoon, Crowley sprawls himself out on the couch and closes his eyes. Perfect weather for a nap, the Spring sun oozing through the blinds. He lets Aziraphale wander around the flat, as he usually does; Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, so when Crowley does he either reads or makes himself tea or just… well, thinks happy and peaceful angel thoughts, Crowley presumes. Doesn’t make a difference, he’s a heavy sleeper.

When he wakes, a couple hours later, the house is completely silent, save for soft, whispering sounds coming from the other room. The plants’ room. _Bingo_. He props himself up and walks carefully, shoeless, hoping not to be noticed.

What he sees leaves him out of breath for a moment. The room is full of light. Not _normal_ light, it’s obviously a well-lit room, perfect to keep the plants healthy, but – no, this is _heavenly_ light, radiating from Aziraphale. It hurts Crowley’s eyes, but he keeps looking, bathes in it. Aziraphale is going around caressing every single leaf with delicate touches, his lips moving continuously in what looks like silent prayer. Crowley tunes in, listens. 

It’s just sweet nothings, words of encouragement. “You’re doing so well, my darlings,” Aziraphale says. “So good. Truly astonishing.” Crowley closes his eyes and swallows something bitter, pushes it back down into his chest. Aziraphale’s words hurt him in places he didn’t know he had. “I see the work that you’re doing and I am proud,” Aziraphale continues, “never doubt I’m proud.”

At this point a strangled sob, halfway between a cough and a gasp, escapes Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale turns at the sound, and the light immediately goes out.

“Um, sorry.” Crowley mutters, looking down at his feet.

“Oh, Crowley, I didn’t mean to-“ Aziraphale nervously rubs his hands together. “I didn’t mean to _overstep_. Your methods are perfectly adequate, I’m sure, if a bit… rough. I just thought they needed a bit of-“

They stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. Behind Aziraphale, suddenly, all kinds of flowers start springing into life.

“-love.”

Crowley winces, the word like a stab to his heart. He cannot speak. His eyes move from Aziraphale to the newborn flowers, and his mouth falls open. He takes a few steps forward, and shoulder to shoulder they marvel at the bloom.

 _Is this all it takes_? Crowley wants to ask. _Is this what you’ve done to me_? But he can’t. He’s afraid he might break the spell. He’s afraid his voice might make everything wither away, as he does, as he always, inevitably does. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, and he wants to run away, but oh, how he wants to stay, like this, until the end of times.

He doesn’t dare look down when he feels Aziraphale’s palm touching his. As they lace their fingers together, the light returns: Crowley feels it as much as he sees it, burning into their joint hands. “Angel,” he says, a trembling, almost soundless sound. In response, Aziraphale lifts his knuckles to his lips and kisses them like a fragile thing. _I love you_ , Crowley hears in his head, in his whole body, bright and clear as the light though neither of them is speaking. _Never doubt I love_.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes the closing line is a Shakespeare reference!


End file.
